Living Large

One of my farther flung dreams is to create a reality TV show.  The premise behind the show is to have church in a bar.  There would be a regular cast of characters (think “Cheers”) and guest appearances by theologians, philosophers, and purpose-filled servant leaders.

Some of my favorite conversations related to God stuff have happened way outside the walls of the church.  It’s already happening in some congregational small groups–these gatherings often go by the name “Pub Theology.”  Small groups meet at a local pub and talk about theological topics. My reality TV show would be a bit more grassroots–stripped of anything that looks like a traditional church.  I already have the bar picked out!

Several years after seminary, and after serving as youth minister in a rather toxic church, I decided I’d explore a career change . . . a rather extreme change.  I went to bar-tending school.  I quickly learned that there weren’t a lot of differences between tending bar and being a minister.  (I never tended bar after going to bar-tending school, by the way. I ended up returning to full-time ministry.)  Think about it . . . the skill sets of a minister and a bartender are comprised of many of the same elements.

The minister and the bartender . . .

• meet people where they are (that’s what the textbooks say anyway)
• are active listeners (talk about hearing some great life stories!)
• are non-judgmental (again, that’s what the textbooks indicate)
• offer solutions (the bartender even offers solution solutions)

If one person was practicing both roles in the same space . . .

• Would it allow for more authentic conversations?
• Would it bring about more engaging discussion about the realities of life, including the disappointments which sometimes get glossed over in the traditional church?

Sure. It’s far-flung. I really do wonder, though, if it might serve as a place for healing for those who have felt rejected by church.  That’s what I would want it to be. Genuinely.

Oh, the ponderings of a Tuesday night . . . and by the way, the name of my reality TV show?  Holy Spirits.

As a Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department volunteer chaplain, I take advantage of the opportunity to ride along with police officers in the community. The district I have focused on is the Westover District. The Westover District covers 16.5 square miles of west Charlotte. There are many Section 8 housing communities within the district. Last spring, while riding with a second-shift officer, we were called to a local motel to check on the welfare of a woman and her three children (ages 12, 10, and 2). While at her children’s school that afternoon, the woman (26 years old) made comments to school staff that she was going to harm herself and her children. The police officers met her as she and the children got off the city bus. To make a long story somewhat shorter, the woman and the children were living in a motel room. She worked nights at a local restaurant, with the motel staff “checking in” with the children while she was away. During our encounter, I heard her yell at her 12-year-old son, become confrontational with police officers, and watched her dump the contents of her purse on the pavement, all in front of her children. Because of her comments at the school, she was involuntarily committed to a mental health facility. The children were “farmed out” to foster care.

It’s been several months since I witnessed this encounter, but still, it sits with me.  At one point in the conversation between the woman and the seven police officers, the group had formed some semblance of a circle.  Somehow the two-year-old ended up standing in the center of the circle, pacifier in her mouth, looking up, watching her mother cry. The toddler’s mother was trying to explain to the police officers that she’s just trying to “get by”, but it’s so hard. “Sometimes I just get angry.”  As I stood on the outside of the circle, it was all I could do to not run in, grab up the children, (and their mother, for that matter), and care for them.

When I watch the news these days, I sense the same need . . . I want to drive to Texas or Arizona, scoop up the children, bring them home with me, and care for them.  It’s not that simple though. There are no simple solutions for the children fleeing their homes and families in Central America.  Nor are there simple solutions for young women raising children in a hotel.  The numbers . . . and the stories that the numbers represent . . . are overwhelming.

I read website after website telling me to pray and send money.  It doesn’t seem to be enough–even in the short term. It’s terrific that food, water, and shelter are provided to many of the children. BUT . . . Who is reading bedtime stories to them?  Who is holding them close when they cry? With whom are they bonding while they are away from their parent?  Who is singing a lullaby to them as they drift off to sleep–a sleep that is most likely related to exhaustion. I will pray. I will send money. It still doesn’t seem to be enough.

Tonight, I will go home, read a little, feed my two cats, and set the alarm so that I can wake up and go to a job that pays good money, provides good benefits, and allows me to pay my bills. In other parts of my city and in cities everywhere, the children . . . hmmm.  All of the sudden, my book, my bed, my job, all those comforts and more . . . it doesn’t seem to be enough.

“You have been selected to be in a pool of contestants,” the postcard read.  It arrived via the US postal system in late August. “That’s nice,” I thought, remembering the lines and lines of people who were auditioning for the game show–and that was at the Charlotte audition.  The auditioning crew had been to 20 other cities–I’m certain it was an Olympic-sized pool of contestants.  Two weeks later, on September 16, I got the phone call from the the area code “212”–New York City.  “We want you to come to New York City to be on ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire.”  I sincerely hope that associate producer’s hearing has recovered from the damage of my high-pitched, very loud, scream. “Your episode will be recorded on September 26,” he said.  What?  Ten days to make arrangements to get to New York?  Ten days to learn all the U.S. Presidents’ birth places?  Ten days to learn the favorite foods of Motown recording artists?  Ten days to memorize the details of the state flags? No–the details of every country’s flag?  So much trivia to remember!  So many  details to manage.

In the Trivia/General Knowledge of my local Barnes & Noble, I found Ken Jennings’ Brain Busters, The Big Book of Trivia, Trivia Bible . . . I took a grand total of eight books to the checkout counter. Gathering information was my main priority for the following week. September 26 arrived faster than I wanted.  There were twelve other contestants waiting at the stage door. We were escorted in, given a tour of the studio, allowing each person to step up to the podium and answer a question. “Meredith will stand here,” they said. My time at the podium finally came at 2:00 in the afternoon. Meredith was very kind and personable. The audience cheered wildly. I saw my mom, dad, and my friend, Jane (who I had not seen since 1984) sitting in the “family seating spotlight”.  The first question popped up, and BAM! $100! I answered all the questions I could, jumped two questions, and asked the audience for help on another question.  I saw eight of the ten initial questions and was able to walk away with $14,000–not too bad for about seven minutes of thinking.

Throughout those ten days–from the day I received the phone call to the minute I signed the release allowing me to receive my winnings–I was a bundle of nerves. Sleepless nights, butterflies in my gut, stress-induced zits!  I didn’t even remember the questions until three weeks after returning to Charlotte. The INFORMATION was there, but had chosen not to be TRANSFORMED by the once-in-a-lifetime experience. With the benefit of hindsight, I knew the answer to all the questions I saw during my chance at the million dollar prize, but out of fear, I jumped questions or asked for the audience’s help.  I often wonder what would have happened if I’d spent those ten days focusing on my breathing, my centeredness, my inner calm.  Taking in all the segmented information, processing it appropriately, then allowing a calm and peaceful presence to envelop the chaos–that’s the TRANSFORMATION. It’s almost as though I was afraid of winning the million dollars.

One of my tasks as a coach, minister, chaplain, and educator is to engage with people about the distinction of living life out of fear and the need for power versus living life from a place of joy and passion. It is easy to get caught up in the events of life, so much so that we lose our mindfulness in busy-ness.  There’s nothing wrong with taking in information. The bonus points, though, come when what you learn transforms your life.  There’s “heady” knowledge and “hearty” knowledge. Knowing the importance of “both/and”, as opposed to “either/or”–that’s worth more than any game show prize.

Since the time since my episode was recorded, I have stood in similar emotional places–qualifying exams for my doctoral work, interviews for jobs, facilitating large groups in leadership development workshops.  From my experience on “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?”  I have learned to take what I know and allow it to transform my way of thinking. Managing my fear is much easier when I take the time to process the feelings, thus TRANSFORMING the INFORMING.  On famous letter-writer said, “Be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” Change your mind.  Change your way of thinking. Be transformed.

Several years ago, I started training for sprint triathlons. Being 46 years old, this new venture required learning some new skills. I’ve enjoyed road and mountain biking for many years, so getting back on a bike was like . . . well, getting on a bike. However, my running/swimming was basically non-existent. Over three or four months I became a decent runner–not fast, but had pretty good form. Better yet, I enjoyed running.

Swimming? Ugh. On the first night of training I met with the group’s YMCA coach, he asked each participant to swim two laps–up and down the length of the pool. I swam as hard as I could down the length of the pool. When I arrived at the other wall, he caught my eye and said, “You don’t have to swim back if you don’t want to.” I was grouped with the other “non-swimmers”. Like the running segment, over a few weeks and with the help of a patient and effective coach I learned to swim more efficiently, earning the right to move into “group two”. There were several aspects of training for the swimming leg of a triathlon that I enjoyed: cool, clean, sterile water. It was easy for me to follow the thick black line painted on the bottom of the pool. The lane dividers were helpful too. I trained–ran, biked, and swam for four months, getting better and better each week.

Finally, the first Saturday in June rolled around and I drove to the site of my very first triathlon–Lake Wiley. Yes, “lake”–not a cool, clean, sterile pool. The lake, as I learned in elementary school, is a habitat for fish, snakes, and all kinds of plant life. That’s right–in the lake, there is life. There were no lane dividers and no thick black line to lead the way. Thankfully, Wonder Coach had reminded me of the differences between pool and lake. “When you feel overwhelmed, flip over on your back, look at the sky, breathe slowly, and calm down.” Sage advice for triathlon participation.

Funny . . . the things we learn while training for triathlons. Like the lake, life is void of lane dividers and thick black lines to lead the way. Life is much like the lake–it’s a habitat for all kinds of people, behaviors, encounters. The advice given to me for my first triathlon swim works in the everyday–“look at the sky, breathe slowly, and calm down.”

Remember the Sesame Street song, “One of these things is not like the other?”  It continues, “One of these things just doesn’t belong.”  Backed by a jaunty little tune, the lyrics entice the listener to find the unmatched item. Interestingly, the song isn’t just for kids anymore.  Do you notice the incongruities that surround you? They’re quite fascinating.

For example, during many rallies and events related to Breast Cancer Awareness, you might find pink cupcakes, pink M&M’s, and all kinds of other sugar-infused pink treats.  At the same time, studies indicate that too many sugar calories may result in weight gain, which may result in a higher risk of getting breast (and other) cancers.  Here’s another example: The latest and greatest leadership studies show that emotional intelligence, team-infused corporate culture, and work/life balance are critical elements for a productive workplace. At the same time, surveys indicate that the majority of employees in the U.S. are dissatisfied with their work, often because they work for a boss who micromanages or leads from a place of fear and need for power.

Incongruities have a way of sneaking into our lives–both external truths and internal truths.  I’ve been pondering the verse from the Christian scripture –“You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”  It seems more and more difficult to find “truth”.  It’s a conundrum, isn’t it?  The Sesame Street song asks young listeners to call out a blue circle among the set of red triangles. Grown-up mismatches aren’t that simple. It’s one thing to talk about the mismatches in life that surrounds us. What about the incongruities in our own life?  When did you last ask yourself, “Why am I resistant to _________ ?”  I know I’ve become a victim of myself . . . laying blame for not facing truths about myself. I use the word “victim” intentionally here.  It’s an easy place to land in truth-seeking, but that’s just it . . . it’s never going to become truth-finding until the truth is named and dealt with.

“If you guessed this thing is not like the others, then you’re absolutely . . . right!”

“Somebody didn’t know what they wanted to be when they grew up.”  Ouch. After barely introducing myself to a new colleague last week, his comment hit hard. Trust me, I am aware that multiple job changes open the floor for comments, questions, and the occasional roll of the eyes. Moving from workplace to workplace doesn’t happen on a whim. It’s painful. When I look to many of my other friends, I see their long histories with companies or agencies.  I can’t help but wonder . . . “what’s wrong with me?”

One of my theories is that in my search for a really great job, where my skills and gifts are going to be valued, I’m living my Plan B. My new colleague’s comment was significantly stinging as it reminded me that when I was little, I wanted to be a wife and mother when I grew up. I can remember playing school with my younger siblings, but in my mind, I wasn’t the teacher.  I was the teacher’s helper–the “room mother”. Oh, I had it planned out all right.  I was going to be married, live in Statesville, and be a great mom to three kids. I planned to be very active in community activities and in my community of faith.  In fact, I planned to play the piano for my community of faith, and teach piano.  My life choices have not matched up with what I wanted to be when I grew up–my Plan A.  Most of my friends understand their purpose as being mostly related to their family–spending quality time with their children, instilling character and integrity, creating a legacy.  As much as I want my two cats, GrayCee and Ginger, to grow and prosper . . . well, let’s get real.  My purpose is more peripheral than an immediate family.

As it turns out though, Plan B translates into “Plan ‘B’etter than Plan A”, for me.  I’m not married and didn’t have kids, but I have taught lots of people how to play the piano, I’ve enjoyed becoming a pseudo-athlete, and have almost completed a doctorate in educational leadership.  Sometime I’m saddened that Plan A didn’t happen–especially the kid part.  When I was little, I wanted to be a wife and a mother, but I also wanted to be happy, valuable, respected, and joy-filled. If that’s Plan B, bring it on–even if change is a part of it.